Among Mr. Timmis’s numerous clients, was one Mr. Cornelius Crobble, a man of most extraordinary dimensions; he was also a “chum” of, and frequently made one of a party with, his friend Mr. Wallis, and other croneys, to white-bait dinners at Blackwall, and other intellectual banquets.  In fact, he seldom made his appearance at the office, but the visit ended in an engagement to dine at some “crack-house” or other.  The cost of the “feed,” as Mr. Timmis termed it, was generally decided by a toss of “best two and three;” and somehow it invariably happened that Mr. Crobble lost; but he was so good-humoured, that really it was a pleasure, as Mr. Wallis said, to “grub” at his expense.

They nick-named him Maximo Rotundo—­and he well deserved the title.

“Where’s Timmis?” said he, one day after he had taken a seat, and puffed and blowed for the space of five minutes—­“Cuss them stairs; they’ll be the death o’ me.”

I ran to summon my master.

“How are you, old fellow?” demanded Mr. Timmis; “tip us your fin.”

“Queer!” replied Mr. Crobble,—­tapping his breast gently with his fat fist, and puffing out his cheeks—­to indicate that his lungs were disordered.

“What, bellows to mend?” cried my accomplished patron-- D___ me, never
say die!”

“Just come from Doctor Sprawles:  says I must take exercise; no malt liquor—­nothing at breakfast—­no lunch—­no supper.”

“Why, you’ll be a skeleton—­a transfer from the consolidated to the reduced in no time,” exclaimed Mr. Timmis; and his friend joined in the laugh.

“I was a-thinking, Timmis—­don’t you belong to a cricketclub?”

“To be sure.”

—­“Of joining you.”

“That’s the ticket,” cried Timmis—­“consider yourself elected; I can carry any thing there.  I’m quite the cock of the walk, and no mistake.  Next Thursday’s a field-day—­I’ll introduce you.  Lord! you’ll soon be right as a trivet.”

Mr Wallis was summoned, and the affair was soon arranged; and I had the gratification of being present at Mr. Crobble’s inauguration.

It was a broiling day, and there was a full field; but he conducted himself manfully, notwithstanding the jokes of the club.  He batted exceedingly well, “considering,” as Mr. Wallis remarked; but as for the “runs,” he was completely at fault.

He only attempted it once; but before he had advanced a yard or two, the ball was caught; and the agile player, striking the wicket with ease, exclaimed, amid the laughter of the spectators—­“Out! so don’t fatigue yourself, I beg, sir.”

And so the match was concluded, amid cheers and shouting, in which the rotund, good-natured novice joined most heartily.

CHAPTER VIII.—­The Hunter.

“Hunting may be sport, says I, but I’m blest if its pleasure.”

Two days after the cricket-match, Mr. Crobble paid a visit to my master.